


Rent Control

by SuedeScripture



Category: Actor RPF, Star Trek RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Roommates/Housemates, Consent Issues, Diners, Domesticity, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Sharing a Bed, Tropes, and discussion thereof
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-19
Updated: 2019-06-16
Packaged: 2020-03-08 03:06:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18885916
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SuedeScripture/pseuds/SuedeScripture
Summary: The one with all the Tropes. Oh my god they were roommates. And there's only one bed. And it all gets out of hand.





	1. Chapter 1

“You want anything else?" the waiter with the pool water eyes asks as he refills Zach's coffee mug at the diner's counter. He sets the pot down and leans his palms on the formica with a grin, "That apple pie looks good, doesn't it?"

Zach has been eyeballing the pie case almost as much as he has the waiter, but smiles sheepishly, "It does, but um. I have less than five dollars in my pocket, so it's no-can-do, I'm afraid."

“So, the starched shirt and tie making you look like an investment banker is an elaborate ruse?" Blue Eyes asks. The name tag pinned to the corner of his apron declares him 'Chris', but considering his Hollywood good looks and the fact that this is the Fly Me To The Moon Diner, Zach's brain subbed in the most obvious nickname. He’s stayed longer than he really intended, just watching the guy work the counter.

"It is if it gets me some temp work," he shrugs. "I've only been out here a few days."

"Lemme guess," Blue Eyes squints at him and purses his lips appraisingly. "You came out here from Philly to be an actor."

"Close! Pittsburgh," Zach brightens, "How'd you guess?"

He lifts his chin in acknowledgement, “You have the look of an East Coaster.”

“Oh, I meant, how did you know I’m an actor?”

"Well, nobody’s big LA dream is to come out here and temp. Everybody's an actor, man." Blue Eyes puts the coffee pot back on the percolator behind him and looks him over again, "You've got the looks and that hopeful gleam in your eye, but you're dressed up to be a phone monkey in an office somewhere. Plus you’ve been scrolling through your phone looking panicky for about twenty minutes." 

He sets about replacing filters and scooping grounds to brew as he chatters with a grin, "You've got enough money on you for a coffee, and not even the six dollar double-shot with soy milk you could get at the Starbucks on the corner. You're here for the two buck Folgers at a truck-stop diner off the 405. Which means,” he hits the reset buttons on the percolator with a flourish and turns back to Zach, “You're about to get the aspiring actor's shit-colored carpet rolled out of the Motel 6 up the road as they kick you out on your ass. Am I right?"

Zach shakes his head with a laugh at this guy's knack for details, "Pretty much. You talk like someone who's lived it."

“Nah, just a native," Blue Eyes smirks, scooping a few crumbs from the counter with a rag, "But trust me, I’ve seen it a million times."

"I can't believe the rents out here," Zach grumbles, thumbing down the list of rentals on his phone again. "I can't afford any of this. Rent in Pittsburgh is like a third this much."

"Tell me about it."

"How are you doing it?" Zach asks, gesturing to his phone and the offensive listings, “I mean, $1900 for a 400 square foot studio? It’s absurd! Even a single room is nearly impossible. Either you have three jobs or five roommates in a one bedroom apartment sleeping on top of each other, or you still live with your parents, right?"

"It's scary how close that is to the truth. I had two jobs up until about three months ago. Seemed like a good time to quit bartending.” Blue Eyes frowns, scrubbing a hand over the back of his neck, “But, uh, my girlfriend kicked me out a few weeks back. Ex-girlfriend now, I guess. Been pulling double shifts here ever since.”

Zach chews his lip. "That sucks. Sorry."

"Yeah, whatever," the guy shrugs, "I'm on my buddies' couch right now, but they're about to get evicted, so I've gotta find something else in a hurry."

The bell in the service window dings, and Blue Eyes gives him an apologetic smile as he goes to take a pair of steaming omelets out to a table.

Tapping the corner of his phone lightly on the countertop, Zach downs the rest of his second mug, scrolling up and down through the rent listings again. It's looking dire if he doesn't get some work soon.

"I better head back out," he says when the waiter returns, standing up from the stool and sliding three dollars across the counter. Even as broke as he is, he can't not tip the man as well as he can for being so friendly to an outsider. "Maybe I'll see you around."

"Hey, good luck, man," Blue Eyes calls after him with a wave.

 

The second time Zach visits the diner will probably be the last, and so it's with a sigh of relief that he sees the blue-eyed waiter is in today— _Chris, his name is Chris,_ he tells himself sternly.

The counter is crowded and Chris is chatting with his manager about something that sounds worky, but he offers Zach a smile of recognition and points him to a booth just being vacated by a couple of kids by the window. Zach hesitates to sit down; he doesn't want to take up a whole table when he doesn't intend to stay and patronize the place, but he pulls his suitcase over to stand beside it, eyeing the untouched food left on one of the plates.

"I'm about to get my shift cut, but if you don't mind me being kinda back and forth for a few minutes, I’ll take you,” Chris says as he slides over with a bus tub, clearing away the plates from the table.

"Actually, I don't—" Zach grimaces, looking down at the table as Chris wipes down its chipped baby blue surface with a rag. "I can't buy anything. I just wanted to ask you some stuff, if that's okay."

"Ask me what?"

"Well, you said you're a local, right?" he says, "I could really use some local advice."

Chris blinks those wide eyes at him for a sec, then glances around sort of covertly before he jerks his chin to the booth anyway. "Sit down, man. I just have to finish up my side work and then I'll be back."

Biting his lip, Zach heaves his suitcase onto the seat and scoots in beside it, and watching the cars go by outside and trying to ignore the aroma of the hot reuben sandwich the trucker behind him is eating. After a minute, a mug of coffee appears in front of him as Chris whooshes past again with a tub of sugar and jam packets to refill the condiment trays. He gives Zach a quick conspiratorial wink from three tables away that makes his heart jump a little.

Zach pretends not to watch Chris finish up his work and count through the wad of cash in his apron. Maybe he should go back to waiting tables. Although that had never worked out well for him; he had an unfortunate tendency to drop full trays of food on a regular basis.

When Chris finally comes back and settles into the opposite side of the booth, it's with a backpack and giant plate of smothered burrito. "Do you mind if I eat? I'm starving," he says, unwrapping a set of silverware from its napkin.

Zach quickly shakes his head, looking down at the coffee and then anxiously back. "You know I can't pay for this," he leans in to whisper, pointing to the mug.

Chris gives a noncommittal shrug, "It costs pennies to brew a pot of coffee, and refills are free. It won't be missed."

Zach licks his lips and thanks him anyway, doctoring it with sugar and sipping as he watches Chris use the side of his fork to cut off a hunk of gooey cheese, egg and green chili.

Chris' eyes dart to his suitcase, nodding to it, "Motel 6 run you out?"

"Pretty much, yeah," Zach's eyes track the huge cheesy forkful of burrito disappearing into his plush mouth, "I was only paid up through this morning, so."

Chris squints at him again, chewing and swallowing his bite. "Dude, have you had anything to eat today?" he asks, brows knitting.

Jerking his eyes away from the plate, Zach just shrugs. Last night he'd finished off the last of the stale bagels he'd bought when he first came out here a week ago. It's mid-afternoon now and he hasn't had anything since.

Without a word, Chris gets up, goes back behind the counter and returns with a clean plate and another napkin roll. Zach watches dumbly as he unrolls the fresh silverware, cuts off the half of the burrito he's not eating from, scoops it messily to the second plate to push across the table.

"What are you doing?" Zach gapes at him, "This is your food."

"Yeah," Chris nods, "And I'm a waiter. I know what it's like to be really hungry and watch other people eat all day. Go on. I get it for free anyway."

Zach hesitantly reaches for the fork and knife, cutting into the gooey smothered burrito. Ordinarily he wouldn't indulge in diner food, but he really is starving. The first warm mouthful in his empty stomach feels like heaven, and he sighs deeply, "Thanks."

Chris smiles knowingly. "I'm Chris, by the way," he reaches a hand over the table.

"Shit, sorry," Zach hastily wipes his own hand to shake, "I'm Zachary. Zach.”

"Zachary," Chris repeats it with a smile, "So what kind of City of Angels advising can I do for you, Zach?"

Zach takes another big bite, chewing as he thinks about his day. “This morning, I went to look at three rooms for rent. The first one was in this old woman's house, and—swear to god—she had every copy of every newspaper they’ve printed on the West Coast for the last thirty years, in these organized, shoulder-high stacks, _everywhere_. With these little eight inch pathways to walk between." Chris smirks through a bite, and he keeps going. "The ceiling to the upper floor? It was bowed in. And it moved. Like, she went upstairs to get something through her little maze of papers, and I could see the joists _bending_ over my head, and little bits of plaster coming down. Literally thought I was going to die."

Chris shakes his head with a contained laugh, given his mouthful.

"The second one smelled like a sewer," Zach continues. "And they didn't know why, but they also couldn't explain the huge brown cesspool that was the back yard."

He watches Chris makes a disgusted face and frowns at his chili-covered food before he moves along, "And the third one… well, I didn't get a look at it at all, because I didn't even get off the bus. Just the look of the neighborhood scared the shit out of me."

"Oh come on, Pittsburgh has shitty places too,” says Chris.

"Sure it does," Zach nods, a little surprised the guy still remembered where he was from, and scraped the remains of the chili from his own plate. "One makes a point to be elsewhere, if at all possible."

Chris nods in sage agreement, "So you want my advice on where to live?” When Zach looks across hopefully, he shrugs again, "I dunno. Depends on how close to work you need to be. You don’t have a car, right?” Zach shakes his head no, and he continues, “I sold mine too, a while back. This city’s a bitch to drive in anyway, but as long as you don’t have to go too far, the bus isn’t really as terrible as people say.”

“I don’t know how you deal without a subway, honestly,” mutters Zach.

Chris smiles and shifts his eyes out the window, “The closer you get to the ocean or to the classy areas, the more expensive it gets. Really, just the other side of the boulevard over there, and rent jumps a couple hundred bucks.”

"Yeah, I've figured that out," Zach sighs. “That's where most of the auditions are, though." He pulls out his phone and starts scrolling through the rental listings again, shaking his head. "I can't afford any of these on my own, not unless I get a roommate. Or three."

"Yeah. Welcome to LA."

Zach looks back up, "Didn't you say your friends were getting evicted?"

Chris plants his elbow on the table and chin in his hand, looking down at his empty plate, "They got the final notice yesterday, yeah."

"Well, that place would be open, then, right?" Zach tries. "Couldn't you take over the lease? Get your own roommate?"

"I was just squatting there anyway," Chris shakes his head, "But it's disgusting. I had no idea my buddies were such pigs, man, but they've never cleaned a thing in there. I swear, this one guy's mom must’ve wiped his ass for him through to adulthood. I mean, I'm not the shiniest knife in the drawer either, but I don't stick chewed gum on the top of the coffee table next to my toenail clippings and then come back and eat it again the next day."

“Oh gross," Zach makes a horrified face.

"Yeah. That's not even why they're evicted either, that was for the noise violations. The main guy on the lease is a drummer, and not even a good one. I'm sure the landlord will redo everything, but who knows how long it'll take them to clean the place out. They'll have to replace the carpet and paint, at least, and the toilet’s really weird about flushing, it’s like a combination lock to get it to go.” Chris wrinkles his nose, glancing at his own backpack with a sigh, "I was gonna take the bus up to my parents' after work. Just for a few days, if I can help it." He looks Zach over with a grin, "You in the market for a roomie?"

"I think I have to be, at this rate," Zach sighs, distracted by his phone again. "I mean some of these sound okay, but there's just no way I could swing it on my own. There was one posted this morning… where'd it go..." he thumbs back through the page. "Here it is, read that."

Chris takes Zach's phone and reads the listing aloud, " _Room for rent, $800/mo, all utilities included, four bedroom sublet. Easy walk to the pier, local shopping, bus stops. Furnished, walk-in closet, shared full bath. Free use of common rooms, kitchen, laundry, pool, hot tub, wifi. All tenants share chores, dinner once a week. Single occupant or couples welcome, open-minded household. Must be responsible, clean, independent, quiet, drug free. Call for appointment to meet._ " He licks his lips in thought. "$800 a month for all that. Wow."

"I had a whole 2 bedroom walk-up in Pittsburgh with a roommate for $900," Zach comments.

"Did it have a pool, or free laundry?” Chris quirks a rhetorical brow, “It sounds great. What do they mean, 'open-minded'? About what? Are they guaranteed to be narrow-minded if they don't specify? It’s a little subjective, don’t you think?"

Zach smirks a little, turning his eyes out the window again, "It means they're okay with gay people."

“Oh," those big blue eyes come back up. "Why don't they just say they're okay with gay people?" He hands the phone back.

"I don't know. Old-school renter's code, I guess," Zach lifts a shoulder, "From back in the day when you only got so many words in the newspaper classifieds and had to be discreet."

"Is it that important?"

Zach looks levelly back, "It is if your landlord or your housemates decide they don't like your lifestyle and start inventing ways to make you leave."

Chris’ brow furrows, and immediately Zach can tell he's never even had to consider that scenario before. "That sucks, man," he offers softly. 

Zach merely shrugs again, rereading the listing himself.

"Did you get any temp work?" Chris asks after a moment.

Zach brightens, "Yeah. Just some office go-fer thing, it's not far from here actually. Supposed to be a month-long job with the potential of a full-time position, if they like me. I start tomorrow."

“Hey, that's great!" Chris smiles widely. He's horribly attractive when he smiles, eyes crinkling at the corners. He glances around again, fingers tapping a little before he leans over to point at the phone again. "So, do you wanna go check this place out? I’ll spot you the bus fare.”

Zach stares across at him. "Together, you mean?"

"Well, yeah?" Chris' grin crooks up on one side, "I'm hapless but gainfully employed, you're hapless but soon-to-be gainfully employed, we're both homeless and meandering…" he winds it up with a gesture at the pair of them.

"You don't even know me and you want to be roommates?"

"Dude," Chris lifts a thick eyebrow, "Considering the smell where I woke up this morning and what I have to look forward to if I go to my parents', I'm totally willing to take Door Number Three, okay?”

Zach studies this guy, taking in his way with words and the hopeful puppy dog expression which is entirely too convincing. "I mean, are you cool sharing with...?"

Chris shakes his head with a smirk, "Come on, do I look bothered right now? I gave you half my burrito, man."

Zach blurts a laugh at this cute fucker validating him by sharing a heart attack on a plate. It only makes Chris smile wider and nod at the phone, "Call 'em. Might as well see what happens, right?" He stands and clears away their empty plates.

When he drops back into the seat, Zach's still staring at his phone after hanging up. "So? What did they say?"

Zach inhales nervously, "Um. She said she has some time right now, actually, and to head on over. She sounded really nice."

"Awesome," Chris grins, standing to pull the straps of his backpack over his shoulders, "Shall we?"

Zach follows Chris out as he waves and calls out his goodbyes to a few regulars he seems to know well, flirting shamelessly with an elderly lady who gets a hell of a kick out of him calling her ‘sweetheart' and telling her he’ll count the minutes until next time.

Chris smiles wide at Zach's eyebrow as they leave, "That's Hazel. She's in almost everyday; there’s a senior center bus that stops here. Her husband died a while back, I guess." He frowns a little, "Sometimes she calls me Frank by mistake. I guess I remind her of him when they were young. I just play along. It makes her smile. Makes her happy.”

Zach doesn't know what to say to that, studying Chris' quiet expression, trying to figure this guy out. He's chatty and forward, radiates an almost palpable intelligence, and if that last tidbit is any indication, just sweet as hell. Not to mention incredibly good looking.

The rental is a ten minute bus ride from the diner, and after a few minutes walking away from the noisy boulevard where they’d gotten off into the calmer residential side streets, Chris speaks again into the silence between them, "You're nervous."

Nodding, Zach considers his day. "Yeah. Even if this place is golden, there might be a wait, background checks or whatever. And I barely have enough in my bank account to cover a deposit on most of these places, so I can't dip into that for another hotel." He can feel his blood pressure rising at the thought. He doesn’t even have a credit card to fall back on at this point. "Honestly, right now I have no idea where I'm sleeping tonight."

"My parents’ have a guest room," Chris says slowly, then turns back to where Zach lags behind with his rolling case, muttering _I wouldn't want to impose_ under his breath. "I mean, if it comes to that. You know, I can just tell 'em you're a buddy from college and you need a place to crash. You wouldn't want to stay there more than a couple days anyway. I don't either," he adds, walking a little faster.

Add ridiculously generous to a perfect stranger to the list of Chris' qualities. Why he's so hellbent on not bunking at his parents' place, Zach doesn't know, but can understand from his own point of view. He loves his mom to death, but there eventually came a point when he simply couldn't live under her roof anymore and have any self-respect.

When they come upon the house, Zach checks and rechecks the address to be sure. The neighborhood is bright and attractive, nothing skeevy in sight. It looks like a redeveloped area, mostly newer houses interspersed with some clearly older 1950’s homes, built to match the era while being updated and modern. They’re all similar; stucco and Spanish tile split-levels, well-maintained landscaping, economy cars and SUVs on the curbs and driveways.

Chris gives a low, impressed whistle, eyes studying the house, than claps Zach on the shoulder with an excited grin, “Ready for this?" He bounds up on the porch to ring the doorbell without waiting for a response.

In a minute, the door opens to a woman whose voice Zach places from the call. She's younger-looking than he expected, and beautiful, dressed in pinstriped trousers and a slim-cut blouse that look like layers of a fierce power suit, though the blouse is untucked and unbuttoned to a peek of chemise.

"Hey, you called about the room?" she asks.

"Yeah, I'm Chris," he jumps in as amicably as ever, "This is Zach."

"Zoe. Come on in," she shakes hands with them both, and her grip is all business before she opens the door wide, stepping out in bare feet to grab the mail from the box mounted beside the front door.

She leads them through the foyer, flipping through the envelopes in her hand. "So where are you boys from?"

"I'm a native," Chris pipes up, "Zach's a transplant."

"Pittsburgh," he supplies quietly, glancing at Chris. It's funny, really, Zach usually can't shut up, but he's been knocked so far off his game by this whole situation that he's coming up short. He clears his throat, "Have you lived here long?"

Zoe sorts the mail into little baskets on a sideboard by the stairs, tossing out some junk in a wicker wastebasket below, but keeping a few coupon books and a catalog of some kind. "Yeah, about six years? It's a great place, what can I say? Alright, so let me show you guys around."

She waves them along, pointing out a well-furnished sitting room, a formal dining room that looks like it mostly gets used as a workspace, given the laptop, briefcase and papers scattered over it—"That's all me, sorry, I don't leave it there," Zoe apologizes—and a more entertainment-oriented lounge with a huge tv and multiple gaming systems (Chris bounces like a ten-year-old). There's a big galley-style kitchen with Saltillo tile and stainless everywhere, a laundry/mud room to one side and on the other, the sun gleaming through a glassed sunroom style breakfast nook. The backyard isn’t huge, but it’s surrounded with a tall stucco privacy fence and mostly taken up by a stone-paved patio with a firepit and a barbecue grill, trellises of bougainvilla and big swat pineapple palms in each corner, and the late afternoon light glinting off the kidney-shaped pool and jacuzzi. 

"All of this is shared space, of course, and the landlord has maintenance guys out every week, so we don’t have to do any of the gardening. The boys like to have their parties, especially during rugby season. They can be a bit rough-and-tumble, but they're good guys," Zoe explains mysteriously. "Anyway, let's go upstairs and see the room?"

They quickly agree, darting a glance at each other. Chris looks like it's Christmas morning. Zach can give him that; the place really is gorgeous, and all for just $400 each?

As they follow Zoe up the stairs, she comes to a moderately sized, pretty bedroom, "This one is me. Karl and Eric have the master up there." She indicates the next half level of stairs leading to a set of french doors that are closed. “Most of the stuff in the house is theirs, so you’ll want to check in with them if you want to use anything in the garage or the games and all that.”

She pushes open a door to a large bathroom with two sinks, a big soaking tub and a glassed-in shower. “You two, Anton and I all share this bathroom; we’ll sort of have to work out shower schedules." Pointing out a closed door on the way down the hall, she says, “That's Anton's room, next to you guys. But he's almost never here, always out of town at competitions with his ice skating peeps. I guess his parents were a big Olympics deal in the 80’s or something; they coach other skaters now and he helps them out with the management.”

She leads them to the last door, “And here’s the room.” 

It's a nice sized bedroom, with a window that won't get too much sun in the mornings. “The bed's a queen," Zoe explains, smoothing the duvet and striding over to pull open the closet, "And the walk-in is alright if you're not too much of a clotheshorse."

Chris indicates his backpack as if that's all he owns, which might well be it. Zach's suitcase, which he'd left in the foyer, is currently all he's got with him, though he did leave some things at his mom's that he'd planned on having shipped out. Assuming he doesn’t give up and go back home.

His eyes stay glued to the bed, though. For whatever reason, he’d sort of disregarded the obvious, thinking maybe there'd be the option of bunks, or a twin and a futon, or just something slightly less _together_. He literally just met this guy not three days ago. He knows his name and that he's a native and he really likes burritos, and that he's some freakish mishmash of literally every California boy stereotype Zach's ever jerked off to, and now they're going to snuggle up together? Not that Zach hasn't slept with guys he barely knows, just usually not consecutively. And usually there's not a lot of actual sleeping involved. And usually they're as gay as he is. Which is really gay.

"So, what do you think?" Zoe asks.

"This is so awesome," Chris answers, thrilled beyond belief. "And it's really only $800? I'm waiting for some sort of catch. Like, is this Anton guy Kathy Bates or something?"

Zoe tilts her head back and laughs, waving them back down the stairs and into the kitchen, "Everybody pulls their weight as far as keeping the place clean. The landlord JJ drops in unannounced sometimes, just to be sure we're all keeping it up. Karl and Eric already push him a little with their parties, but they've been here the longest and they pay most of the rent, so he lets it slide. Anton gets away with not being on a lot of chores since he's never here, but he always pays his rent on time, so…” she shrugs, shaking her head, “JJ seems to think I'm Mamabear around here, keeping all these boys in line.” She winks and smiles, "The first month is always a trial period, of course. You’ve got to fit in with us. We've got to like you."

"And do you?" Chris drops his eyelids and pouts a little. 

It's blatant flirting, and Zoe reads him like a book. She lifts an eyebrow, darting a look at Zach swiftly, “Aren't you two...?"

“Um, we just—" Zach starts, but instantly Chris is pressed up against his side, his hand snaking around Zach's hip like it belongs there. 

"Oh yeah," he says with a swift, dazzling smile. “Actually, we’re engaged."


	2. Chapter 2

“Actually, we’re engaged,” says Chris, and Zach’s head whips around to gape at him so hard it hurts. What the fuck? 

Chris reaches up with his free hand and taps Zach's nose with his finger, admonishing him with a _shush_ and a sappy look, "He's very shy about it, and it’s only been a few days. We haven't even told our parents yet."

"Oh, that's so sweet!” Zoe coos, “Congrats, you guys!”

Internally, Zach is throwing a hissy fit, and he only fleetingly has the presence of mind to keep his mouth shut. He wraps his hand around the one on his hip to peel it away, but Chris tangles their fingers together and squeezes. He's on the point of dragging this guy off to demand just what the hell he's thinking when a roaring sound thunders up outside, cutting out in sputters just beyond the kitchen walls.

"Oh, that’ll be the boys," Zoe smiles, nodding toward the ruckus. "They'll want to meet you."

Momentarily, two thickly accented and raucous guys bustle through the side door from the garage to the kitchen, laughing and loudly chattering, tossing sweaty hair as they tug off shining motorcycle helmets. Both of them are fit as fuck and gorgeous in their tight t-shirts and leather motorcycle chaps. It’s fairly intimidating, actually.

“Ah-ah! Helmets off the table!” chides Zoe with authority, and both of them are instantly chastised, one taking the helmets back out to the garage.

“Sorry, darling,” the other kisses her cheek.

"Eric, Karl, this is Zach and Chris," Zoe introduces as they take in the company, striding over to shake hands with intense grips and _Cheers, mates_. "They're here about the room."

"Oh yeah?" the one with the curls, Eric, looks them over speculatively. “What do you think, brah?"

"You surf?" the other one asks.

Chris shrugs a little, "Badly?"

Eric strokes his chin, flicking his eyes over Zach, "Ride hogs?"

"Ride… what?" Zach stutters. He's a city boy, never even been on a horse before. Granted, he's not operating at a hundred percent right now, given his very fucking recent marriage proposal.

"You take the skinny one," Karl says from the corner of his mouth, "I'll take Brad Pitt here and let the waves whip his arse."

"Hey, I said badly, but I have!” Chris defends jovially, hand slipping away from Zach.

“Oh wait, you mean like Harley’s, right?" Zach belatedly figures it out. 

Eric cracks a wide grin and winks, pulling open the fridge to grab two beers and hands one off to Karl, "Oh man, you two'll be a riot. Let's keep 'em."

“Let's."

Zoe rolls her eyes and gestures to them, "Eric and Karl, gentlemen. I guess that means you're approved."

The guys head out to the patio and Zoe continues her explanations; she points out a list of chores on a whiteboard by the fridge, talks some more about expectations, assigned cupboard and refrigerator space and ‘family' dinner nights, and then gives them copies of the month-to-month lease to read. The whole time, Zach chews his cuticles and shifts uncomfortably whenever Chris reaches over and touches his shoulder or neck, like he's trying to sooth and play boyfriend. _Fiancé_. What the fuckity fuck.

"So, when can we move in?" Chris gleefully asks.

Zoe gestures to the ceiling in the direction of the room, "As long as your deposits clear, you can be in tonight if you want."

"That's perfect. So awesome," he turns to Zach, "Isn't that perfect, babe?"

"I'm sorry, can we–” Zach bites his tongue almost hard enough to bleed. “Maybe we should discuss some stuff for a minute before we sign anything? Outside?" His eyes drill into blue, seeing Zoe's eyebrow go up in his periphery.

Chris scratches his head and stands, "Yeah, sure, okay."

Zach makes his way back through the foyer to grab his suitcase and haul it back out to the driveway, without waiting for Chris to follow.

"So? It's great, right?" he says with a stupid grin.

"Oh yeah, it's a dream," Zach says sarcastically, "Except, you know, that extra special bit where you decided we were getting married? What the fuck was that?"

"What?" Chris opens his palms to the air in confusion, "It's legal now.”

"Missing the point entirely, that's great," Zach throws his hands up. "Did you forget the part where I don't even know your last name?"

"Pine," Chris offers, "Like the tree. I mean I could take your name, if you want? Or maybe we hyphenate? What is yours?"

"Quinto. Just... Oh my god! Why did you do that? We can never go back in there!" Zach grabs the handle of his suitcase and stalks off down the sidewalk.

"What? Wait, why?" Chris follows, grabbing his arm, "Why not?"

"Engaged?" Zach pulls away and spins on him, "That's your angle? Are you certifiable? Why did you tell her that?"

"I dunno, it seemed like a good idea?" Chris' eyes are wide and earnest, "Come on, Zach, this place is amazing! I just thought... if they think we're a couple, it's not weird to have two dudes in one bed, right?"

"Of course, because we couldn't just, like, tell them the truth?" Zach reels, "Now we have to pretend to play Happy House Husbands? Did you even think that through for half a second?"

Chris blinks, chewing his lip like an scolded five-year-old who doesn’t quite get it, "Wait… what about it isn't good, though?"

"Oh, I don't know, Chris," Zach sighs heavily, "The whole part where one day soon, I'm going to want to get laid, and I assume you will too. I mean, I figured there'd be a whole sock-on-the-doorknob deal, like college."

Chris thinks about this and shrugs, "So we'll get laid elsewhere. It's doable."

"And what about convincing the pair of surf hippie leather daddies in there of our impending nuptials? The ones with the master bedroom we didn't see but I'm relatively sure has a set or two of eyebolts in the walls, maybe a mirror above the bed?" Zach challenges. "You're obviously new to the lifestyle, but us gay guys? We like to fuck. Daily. Twice on Sundays." He continues off along the walk.

It's a second before Chris is pulling him up again, "Okay, yeah, you're right. I didn't think it through. But I still think we could play it."

Zach rolls his eyes and shakes his head, stopping to face him, "I thought I was the actor here."

Chris shrugs and smiles, "Everyone's an actor here. It's LA." He huffs, grabbing Zach's hand again. "Come on, please? It's a month trial, so if it doesn't work out, at least we'll both have some time to figure something else out, right? With a roof over our heads, and a real bed, in a clean, awesome, beautiful house with decent people. And a basketball hoop over the garage. And a jacuzzi. Dude, there’s a jacuzzi! Please, give it a chance? Give _me_ a chance?"

He has Zach's hand sandwiched between both of his own, eyes doing this pleading puppy dog thing like he's used this trick on grandmas and teachers and maybe police to get out of all sorts of pissing on the carpet, and if Zach was actually dating this adorable shithead, it might work on him too. Besides that, he has a point. Zach has nowhere else to go, and the place really is nice. He exhales, dropping his eyes to their combined grip and softly conceding, "Okay. We'll try it."

Then the asshole smiles enormously and raises Zach's hand to press two kisses in quick succession to the heel of Zach's thumb, making his heart do a little flip. Chris' lips are as soft and pillowy as they look, shit. Zach raises an eyebrow as Chris nuzzles at his hand a little, flicking those pool blue eyes up at him and murmuring, "Shut up, I'm practicing."

With a snort, Zach indicates the way back, and Chris laces their fingers together between them, all the way back to the door.

Inside at the kitchen table, Zach fidgets while he watches Chris scrawl his name across the lease, then signs away his own name feeling like it’s his soul. Then they make small talk while Zoe checks her phone to see if their deposits clear. He makes himself deeply interested in the chore board and communal grocery list, half-listening to Chris shoot the shit with Karl and Eric across the room. He knows he isn't supposed to hear the low murmur one of them poses to Chris, "So, your fella’s a mite high-maintenance, eh?"

"My fiancé," is Chris' smooth correction, and there’s even a hint of possessive posturing in his tone. Zach has to give it to him, he's dedicated.

"Yeah? Good catch, mate. I wouldn’t’ve thrown that one back either."

“Alright!” Zoe lifts her phone up, “That’s that! Welcome home, guys. Now the question is, what’s for dinner? It’s family night.”

Chris quickly steps in and pays for everyone out his tips for the day when they decide on delivery from a Vietnamese place nearby. They spend the evening on the patio passing around the cartons and chatting. They learn that Eric and Karl work as extreme sports guides—cave-kayaking, para-surfing, cliff-diving or variations thereof for the death wish-oriented tourist trade.

Chris bullshits like a pro, keeping the conversation rolling until well into the night. He answers questions about himself, listens intently when the same are posed to Zach, and then asks questions about the others, all while reaching over to pat Zach's knee or drape his arm across the back of his shoulders.

After Zoe bows out citing an early morning, Zach quickly does the same, conceding the bathroom to her first despite polite arguments; he really just wants some time to himself to wrap his head around everything. He bids them all goodnight and heads up to the room. _Their_ room.

He takes a deep breath, letting it out slowly as he surveys the space once again. Besides the bed, there are nightstands with lamps and drawers to each side, a single but tall dresser, and a small desk and chair in the other corner. Lifting his suitcase to the bed, he unzips it and looks over his meager possessions. He's not really sure if he should even bother unpacking, uncertain as he is about this whole arrangement. But Chris is right, they’ll have at least a month to figure it out. He can handle a month. Hopefully.

As he's hanging up his shirts and slacks—belatedly kicking himself that he didn't ask Zoe where the ironing board is, or if that would be a shared item—there's a light double-tap on the door and Chris peeks in.

"Hey," he smiles, bright even in the dim lamplight.

"Hey," Zach answers, glancing at where his suitcase is on the bed. "Um, is it okay if I take the window side?"

Chris just shrugs, sliding his own backpack off his shoulder to the other side of the mattress.

"Or, I dunno," Zach mumbles, keeping his eyes on the pants he's draping neatly over a hanger, "I could sleep on the floor, or something."

"Dude," Chris says, amusement quirking his face when Zach looks up. "No one's sleeping on the floor."

"Okay, just..." Zach opts to shrug rather than finish that sentence. He's never been so reluctant to bunk with a hot guy in his life, and he's not even sure why.

“Just… you're freaked out that I'm freaked out that you might jump me in the night, or something?” Chris lifts both eyebrows, managing to look skeptical and lighthearted at the same time. He tilts his head, "Are you going to?"

"Of course not!" Zach ducks back into the closet again to hang the pants and hide his blush. Because no, of course he wouldn’t. But at the same time, Zach can't really predict what his body might do when he's unconscious either. He tends to sprawl, and if there's a warm body to spoon… He nearly collides with Chris on the way back out the closet door. 

"Okay, then. I didn't think you would,” says Chris, setting a laptop and some notebooks on the desk by the closet door, "Are you going to need this?" he asks.

"No, go ahead,” he says, flinching away and turning back to his things to mutter, “You’re the one who thinks it’s weird.”

“What is?”

“For two dudes to sleep in the same bed.” He brazenly lifts his chin, and gets a little vindication at seeing Chris freeze. Because yeah, words like that sting a bit.

He has the decency to look chastised, nodding, “You’re right, that was a shitty thing to say. I’m sorry.”

Zach gives it a pass with a nod, unpacking his socks and underwear into the top drawer of the nightstand, pulling out his toiletry bag last. Ordinarily, he'd slip the lube and condoms in there as well, but he hesitates now. He's certainly not going to be getting laid in this room, so where should they go? Undecided, he grabs his pajamas and toothbrush, and flees to bathroom without a backwards glance.

Chris waltzes in a few minutes later when Zach has a mouthful of foam, clad in a threadbare Berkeley t-shirt and loose shorts. He raises his brows at Zach's own fitted tank and silky pajama pants, loads his own toothbrush and scrubs up.

It's awkward. Zach has memories of standing at the sink brushing his teeth with his older brother when they were kids, but in the interim since, he's never really done it with anyone else that he can remember. It's sort of weirdly intimate, and silly, with Chris making faces as he scrubs every surface of those nice, straight white teeth. Hollywood sort of teeth. Zach wonders if its a pre-req to living and working here, if Chris had braces as a kid or if he was just blessed by the good teeth gods. But the faces Chris is pulling as he spits and scrubs his tongue make Zach smirk, to which Chris gives a foamy, dorky grin. Yeah, definitely braces.

Back in the room, the door shuts quietly behind them and Zach steels himself, sitting on his side of the mattress with his back to Chris, making a show of plugging his phone in and messing with the alarms for the morning. Hell, he's practically forgotten to be nervous about his first day at work tomorrow.

The bed shifts with a rustle of covers, and he turns to see Chris fluffing and punching at his pillow before wriggling his head into it with a deep sigh. "God, a bed," he moans happily, closing his eyes.

Zach turns down his own side and swings his legs under, looking over at Chris' relaxed but smiling face.

"Better than some nasty bachelor couch?"

"Oh god, don't talk to me about that," Chris' eyes open again, turning against the pillow to look at him. "I would rather wake up looking at you than the cold KFC bucket somebody left where I was sleeping any day."

That pulls a giggle from Zach's chest, "Nice, so I'm better than congealing bucket chicken and toenail clippings. That's validating."

"Much better," Chris yawns, wide and pink. Zach shifts his eyes away, down to the worn Berkeley tee and then over to the laptop he’d set on the desk earlier.

"So do you do online school or something? When you're not talking up old ladies and serving eggs?"

Chris opens his eyes again and grins, "Nah, I'm way done with all that. Got a BFA in Lit from here," He plucks his shirt and looks bashful for the first time as he fixes his gaze on the ceiling. “But I write. Well, I want to write. Professionally."

"Anything in particular?"

With a shrug, Chris answers, "I mean if I have to, I can drum up articles on twentieth century novelists or the LA hipster foodie scene. Whatever I can for a paycheck and to get my name in print. But I always have stories in my head. All kinds. You know Hazel, the old lady at the diner? I have a whole narrative of her life with Frank, just based on the stuff she tells me while I'm refilling her coffee and listening to her talk about her memories. Riding her bike home when she heard the Japanese had surrendered, the plantation in Kentucky where they got married, where she was when the moon landing happened. You know? A whole lifelong historical love story. It'd be a great book if I can write it right, do it justice. Or even a screenplay. Maybe both, I don't know."

Zach looks up at the plaster ceiling. So there it is. Chris is definitely a storyteller, he got that from the off. If anything, the ruse he's managed to build for them in a few short hours is already blossoming in his head. But he doubts anyone like Chris waits tables because he loves it, no matter how good he is at doing it. Everybody has their passion. Zach's got his acting, wants the stage and screen like air, and he can see the same sort of longing in the guy next to him. Chris probably dreams of Pulitzers and the New York Times Bestseller List instead of Tonys, Oscars and Emmys.

They lay there in silence for long minutes before Zach turns sideways to click off the lamp, plunging them into the dark. He stays there, facing away from Chris, and listens to the sound of their breath mingling in the dark.

"Goodnight, John-Boy," Chris says from behind him.

Zach snorts and answers, "Goodnight Jim-Bob."


	3. Chapter 3

The first thing Zach realizes upon waking to his alarm in the early morning is where he is, the previous evening spinning in his head. The second is that he's alone in the bed, the blankets on Chris' side already pulled up as neatly to the pillow as possible given Zach still occupying the other side. There’s also one of his own shirts, freshly ironed, hanging on the closet door.

He takes a quick shower, shaving and dressing and fussing over his hair and tie in the mirror for longer than necessary before he takes a deep breath and heads down the stairs. He can smell coffee brewing, and hopes it's okay if he has a cup before heading out to catch the bus to his new job.

He's nearly to the kitchen entry before he hears the distinctive rumbly timbre of Chris' voice within.

"So, what does a girl do, dressed like that everyday?"

Zach doesn't bother to suppress his eyeroll, but he can see how Chris gets so many tips. He could curb the flirting, though, just a little, considering their fucking 'engagement'. Jesus, that all comes back to him now as well, this ridiculous lie invented by a guy he's known for all of four days. Two if he only counts interacting with him.

"And what, exactly, am I dressed like?" is Zoe's _son-check-yourself_ variety of reply. Zach likes her.

"You know," Chris drawls, "Like someone who comes into my diner, shuts down a dozen trucker wolf-whistles with one deadly look and orders her coffee black with no bullshit."

Zach smirks, and hears Zoe do the same. "Right, that's how it is. I usually like a latte, though. We're out of milk."

"Soy?"

"Skim."

"I'll remember that. Lemme guess," Chris pauses here in consideration, and Zach can already imagine the squinty-eyed appraisal. "You're a lawyer. You work for some big shot firm down off Pershing Square, suing bankers and CEOs for embezzlement and insurance fraud. You drive that beat-up Chevy Tahoe out there because it's a fair trade for a Prada suit."

Zoe cackles out loud. "Honey, if that were the truth, wouldn't I own this damn house? I'm a paralegal."

"Same difference."

"Yeah, for thirty bucks an hour, compiling paperwork for the dude in the corner office. This suit's a knock-off."

"Mmm. Well, I can't tell. Still makes you look like you kick ass and take names."

“I might.”

There’s a giggle and then a coffee sipping lull. “Thanks for showing me about the iron.”

“Sure, no problem. You did a pretty good job,” she sounds impressed.

Zach is about to make his entrance when he hears his own name and stops in his tracks.

"So, Zach doesn't say much."

Chris makes a swallowing noise, "He does, actually, once you get him going. He's just shy at first. But this whole thing has been weird for him, I get it."

"How?"

"Just… coming all the way out here, not being sure about us living together, you know."

"You said you met online?"

"Yeah," Chris says, “Old school, one of those chatrooms? We've been skyping and emailing for awhile, really, just as friends, off and on. But I finally got him out here so we could meet up, and it just…" He makes some sound, possibly emulating a bomb going off.

Zach shakes his head. The way Chris spins a story, he's probably going to need Cliff's Notes in order to keep up with this whole charade and not stick his own foot in it when someone asks him leading questions. It's probably better just to work this shy angle for all it's worth.

"And now you're getting married,” she sighs romantically.

"Yeah." Another pause and a giggle, and Chris wryly adds, "What can I say, I'm impulsive.” There's a shuffle, and then Chris speaks again, his voice soft and sincere. "He's a sweetheart though. I'm wild about him."

That should not trip Zach's pulse the way it does. Chris calls old ladies ‘sweetheart’ while he refills their coffee. It’s all part of this giant lie. And yet his blood starts racing. He hesitates another full minute, debating whether he could just sneak right out the door, but the tempting aroma of coffee makes him steel himself.

"Hey!" Chris greets him with enthusiasm, turning to set his own cup on the counter before he takes Zach by the arms and plants a kiss on his cheek. “Oh good, you saw your shirt. You look nice!”

Having no idea how to respond, Zach freezes.

"You're nervous," Chris says, rubbing his arms up and down before he turns away to pour Zach a mug, doctoring it exactly as Zach had at the diner with two sugars before handing it to him. "You're gonna do great," he offers, again petting Zach's shoulder in a soothing manner.

"Zach, do you want the other half of this bagel?" Zoe asks, offering her plate.

He shakes his head quickly, "Oh no, I really couldn’t."

"No, go ahead, I don't want it."

"You really should eat something," Chris puts in, his eyes glowing with sincerity and caring. Zach can only shake his head, sipping the hot coffee to cover himself. He supposes his ineptitude with trying to thwart all this charity is playing up to the charade of pre-job nerves, but in reality, Chris makes him more nervous than the job does. In the end, he eats a few bites of toasted bagel just to make the guy back off a little. He hopes Zoe will leave so they can drop the act, but no dice. Once his mug is empty, he glances at his watch, eager to leave this situation behind. "Okay, I've got to go. Can’t miss the bus."

Chris takes Zach’s mug from him, “I’ll go with you.”

"You don't have to—"

"It's on my way anyway, remember?” Chris finishes his own coffee in one gulp, rinsing both of their mugs and putting them in the dishwasher unasked, sending a smile to Zoe as he ushers Zach out with a hand low on his back. "See you tonight."

Once outside, Zach walks fast, mostly to get Chris to drop the touchy-feelies. "You know, maybe you should be the actor," he mutters.

"I was good, right?" Chris grins, "Did you buy it?"

Zach merely throws him a dirty look. 

“I’m just trying to act like we’re together and you’re… well, you’re not,” says Chris, pushing his hand through his chestnut hair.

“Look, you’re a straight guy,” Zach shakes his head, “I’m trying to be respectful of normal boundaries with you, and meanwhile you’re trying to convince everyone that we’re _married_ —”

“Engaged.”

“Whatever!”

“Is it working?” Chris asks.

They arrive at the bus stop, and there’s no real escape. Zach sighs. “I dunno.”

“Well, it must be, we haven’t been confronted about anything. It’s fine. I told you it doesn’t bother me at all,” he shrugs, but then frowns and looks concerned. “Wait, is it too much for you? Fuck, I’m sorry, man—”

“No,” Zach exhales with frustration, “Yes. I don’t know. I don’t know the rules of this.”

“Well, we’ll make some up, then,” he smiles, sweet and earnest. “It’s like acting, right? So I hereby give you permission to do stuff, Zachary. Whatever you’d do with a real boyfriend.”

“Fiancé,” he corrects, “And only things I’d do in public, which, you know, growing up a closeted Catholic is admittedly not a helluva lot.”

“Right.” The bus arrives and they climb on. It’s not crowded, and Chris drops into a seat next to him. He’s got that curious nescience in his eyes again. “What would you do in private?”

Zach rolls his eyes. “Don’t push it. You couldn’t handle me.”

After a few silent minutes into the ride, Chris huffs a sort of guileless laugh, "I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable. I'm sure you really are nervous about the job."

He just shrugs in answer, mostly because he doesn't quite know what else to say. Chris was the one who invented the stupid engagement story, anyway, it's his act, and Zach doesn't even know the script. 

Parting ways at the boulevard, Chris pauses, those placid eyes looking him over appraisingly. "If you get away for lunch, swing by the diner, okay? I'll hook you up."

Zach doesn't take him up on the offer.

 

The next few days progress similarly. The job is exactly what he expected it would be, largely fielding phone calls, memos, and brainless data entry, a few instances of solving software blips the higher-ups are too technologically inept to figure out for themselves, but seems to go a long way towards their approval of him as a potential employee. He isn’t even in IT, but hey, the pay is decent and it’ll go up if and when they hire him.

He asks his mom to wire him fifty dollars, just enough to cover food and essentials until he gets his first paycheck. She frets and fusses, and then she sends a hundred, despite his protests and promises to pay her back. He lands one audition for a department store commercial, bombs it horribly, and comes back to the house with his ego wounded and questioning why he ever came out here in the first place.

After a week, he settles into the routine of Chris having his coffee ready for him, trying to get him to eat a bowl of cereal or toast in front of Zoe, and the pair of them riding the bus to the boulevard and going their separate ways in the early hours of the morning. Three times during the week, Chris pulls double shifts, so they end up taking the bus back together in the evening too.

If not, he typically finds Chris either in the room or out on the patio, typing away on his laptop, a pair of thick-framed glasses perched on his nose that are just nerdy enough that Zach can't help but find it cute.

He starts to get used to sleeping with another person. Not that he hasn't done it before, but as a consistent thing with the same guy that he's not actually fucking, it's sort of weird. He's rarely had any actual relationship last more than a few months, and living together never came into play in those instances. 

That said, Chris isn't a terrible bed partner. He more or less sticks to his side and he doesn't snore too badly—when he does, it's sort of soft and adorable, and all Zach has to do is poke him a little to get him to roll over, so he can't really be annoyed about it.

 

“Let me do it.”

“No, I got it!” Zach says as he stands over a pan of pancakes, “I got it.”

It’s Saturday morning. The boys are sleeping in—and from what Zach could hear late last night through the walls, he knows why. Karl and Eric’s room isn’t even that close; the entire staircase and foyer below are all in between them, and he sincerely hopes Zoe sleeps like the dead, because damn. He’d lain there awake, listening to the muffled grunting and headboard banging, hard-on aching in his pajamas with Chris snoring beside him.

"Dude, I work in a diner, okay?" Chris says.

“You're a waiter, not a cook," Zach retorts, "And my mom perfected the pancake flip long before you were even a pine nut, Pine."

"Say that three times fast," Chris snickers.

“Pinenutpine, pinenutp—“ Suddenly Chris is right up behind him, his hands sliding along the outsides of his own forearms. “Hey!”

"Nonono, shhh," Chris soothes, still grinning with his chin over Zach's shoulder, "Lemme help."

"I don't need help!" Zach squeals. Zoe giggles, watching from the breakfast table.

"Shush," Chris admonishes, wrapping his hand around Zach's with the spatula. "Come on, it's bubbling, you gotta flip it—"

"Let me do it, you ass!" Zach laughs, "I'm left-handed, you're not. You're gonna mess me up—stop it, ahhh!”

Hands over Zach's, Chris shovels the spatula under the cake, and a directional argument commences. The pancake does flip, but haphazardly, splatting partly to the side. Zach rolls his eyes and pouts, "See? Now look what you did. It’s all—” he snorts at the failure of a pancake, “It’s all, like, penis-shaped. You’re gonna eat that one.”

Chris presses up closer, his whole body snugged against Zach's back, and his soft lips brushing against his earlobe, his voice low and enticing, “Not a problem.”

Zach gasps involuntarily at that, and at so much warm Chris against him, hips right up against his own ass, big arms wrapping around his waist as he nuzzles. Zach turns his head over his shoulder, and those lips are so close, he nearly loses his fucking mind to see Chris' eyes dart down to the proximity of their mouths. Half of him is screaming to step away, end this immediately, but the other half is fully on board when Chris leans over, brushing their lips together softly, eyes wide and questioning. 

One tiny taste, and Zach is dropping the spatula, bringing his hand up to grab Chris by the hair and kiss him more soundly. Chris kisses back. Zach can't tell if it's his own heart pounding in his ears or Chris' up against him, because Chris kisses him back. There's a flash of tongue and the bittersweet taste of maple and coffee, pulling a tiny noise from his throat, because Chris tastes good, smells good, feels amazing, and he's kissing Zach back.

Zoe clears her throat behind them, "Cakes are burning, boys."

Zach feels Chris pull fully away while he picks up the pan and scrapes the burned penis pancake out and into the trash, reaching for the batter to start fresh. His face feels like it’s on fire.

They're silent as they sit at the table with the pile of pancakes between the three of them, Zach darting occasional glances at Chris as they eat, sometimes catching each other and dropping back to their plates.

Afterwards, it’s their first week to do some housework, so they both pay close attention to Zoe as she shows them where the communal cleaning products are and what’s expected. Chris tackles the vacuuming, mopping and windows while Zach cleans their shared bathroom, does the dusting and sweeps the outdoor areas.

Zach makes sure to finish up before Chris is done with his chores, so he can go go for a run. Alone, away from Chris and everyone else, so he can clear his head. It also gives him an opportunity to familiarize himself with the neighborhood.

And honestly, it’s such a nice area. Far nicer than anything else he’d looked at, or anywhere else he’d lived previously, up to and including his mom’s place. This probably isn’t upscale by LA standards, but it definitely is to him. The nearby shops are a bit on the pricey side, but Zach doesn’t need much, just a local library branch or used bookstore, maybe a cheap 24-hour gym and hopefully a decent gay bar somewhere nearby.

He ends up stopping at a sandwich shop for an early dinner, and when he gets back to the house, Chris, Eric and Karl are engrossed in a game of hoops in the driveway, all of them shirtless in the bright California sunshine.

“Zach, come on, man! I need back-up!” says Chris, casually dribbling the ball and looking right at home here.

“Nah,” he says, dropping his eyes, “I wouldn’t be any help.” It’s the truth, anyway, he sucks at basketball. He waves Chris’ pleas away, insisting he needs a shower. 

Which is where he is five minutes later, jerking off to the image of all that glistening skin and muscle and beautiful blue eyes. Karl and Eric are both intimidatingly jacked, yet it’s still Chris’ somewhat softer body he’s drawn to.

He can’t really look at any of them after that, so he takes a book to the little-used living room, tries not to think about the day or the taste of maple, and buries himself in another world for awhile.

When they go to bed that night, with the light off and the room plunged into the shadows, the silence is deafening, until Chris rolls over and breaks it.

"So, was that weird?"

"What?" Zach feigns. It's totally childish to play dumb, but he can't help it.

"The thing," Chris says, "This morning, with the pancakes."

"Your inability to flip them? Yeah, for a diner jockey, it kinda is."

The back of Chris' hand comes out of the dark to thump his arm. "You know what I mean."

Zach sighs. So they're going to talk about this. "You kissed me."

“You kissed me!"

"Oh my god, Chris," Zach mops his face with his hand. "You were all over me, you were practically nibbling my ears, which are really fucking sensitive, by the way. I kissed you, but only because you kissed me first."

"No, you did it first."

"You looked at my mouth," he retorts, "You were wrapped around me like a monkey and you whispered very not-innocuous things in my ear and then you kissed me. All you."

"Yeah, well, you kissed back."

"What the fuck else was I supposed to do?" Zach asks, "Zoe was right there watching. This whole thing was your idea."

"I know," Chris falls silent and stares up at the dark ceiling, their breath the only sound in the room for a couple of minutes. “I’ve kissed you before.”

Zach sends a withering look across the dark, because little pecks on the cheek are so not the same thing.

Chris concedes with a shrug, “Wasn’t bad for a first kiss, I guess."

"Yeah, thanks,” Zach snorts. "Anyway, if you're going to lay on the PDA, you know, maybe warn me first."

"You gotta prepare for that?" Chris says, a smile in his voice.

"I just," he huffs, "Don't spring shit like that on me, okay? It messes with my head." He rolls over toward the window.

After a few moments he feels the light press of fingers on his shoulder blade. "'M sorry," Chris murmurs. “I get it, like, consent and all. I guess we didn’t formally agree on that, and we probably should’ve.”

Zach rolls back over, “I just don’t get why you’re going all in like this. You’re making it so much harder than it needs to be. It would have been so much easier to just…” he doesn’t finish his thought, because he doesn’t know if it would have been easier. To do what? To not say anything? To say they were two desperate homeless guys who didn’t know each other at all, and needed a bed? Zoe’s a smart, sensible woman. She’d have told them to find a motel with rates by the hour, and to hell with them.

“I don’t know either, man,” Chris sighs, “Like, sometimes when I’m writing a story, I might have the whole thing planned out, everything outlined,” Chris says, “But then, literally as I’m writing it, someone—one of the characters—says or does something I didn’t even expect and the whole thing just takes a hard left and somehow we end up in Wisconsin, you know?”

“But you’re the one writing it. You control it.”

“You’d think, but that’s not always true. Sometimes it just goes off the rails, and I know it’s wild, but it’s exciting and I just keep going because I want to know where it takes me from there.”

“Okay,” Zach stares at his darkened features. “That’s like the first draft though, Chris. Like, those things that you think are great in the moment, after you write that, you go outside for a few days and come back and look at it later and say, ‘holy shit, this is fucked up’.”

“Yeah, but,” Chris frowns, “Sometimes I really like what I wrote, or a turn of phrase or whatever. And I wanna keep it.”

“Then you need some other eyes. You need an editor,” says Zach, “Someone who might look at it sideways and make you change it, or even get rid of it entirely. And it sucks, but ultimately it’s for the greater good.”

Chris pouts, picking at the blankets. “I guess. Maybe.”

Zach huffs a wary laugh at this whole analogy, “Except, this story you're writing for us, it’s improv. It’s completely on the fly, and Player 2 has literally no scene blocking, and there’s a live audience, you know? So like… try not to Thelma and Louise it and drive us off a cliff.”

“Meaning what?”

“I’m saying you’re going super method on this whole gay engaged thing, and it’s gonna bite us in the ass.”

“Method?”

“Yeah, you know? Like, Daniel Day-Lewis. _My Left Foot_. He played a disabled character who couldn’t move anything but his foot, and literally didn’t, for like, the whole production. He made them wheel him around the set and spoon feed him and everything,” Zach said, “And while it’s admirable in theory, it’s kind of totally nuts in practice. It fucks with your mind and fucks with the people around you.”

“Huh.”

Zach rolls back to his side, hoping he’s made his point. Still, his own advice is problematic, given the whole performative nature of this thing they’re doing. He can do it if he applies himself. He’s an actor, after all. He heaves a big sigh, and squeezes his eyes shut, hating himself. “We probably should, anyway. Kiss and stuff, sometimes, in front of them. If they’re really going to believe us.”

“Yeah, I guess,” is the answer. “Wanna practice?”

“Geez, are you twelve?’ Zach retaliates over his shoulder, “We both know how kissing works, we don’t need to practice.”

“Right. Sorry.”

And that’s the end of it.


End file.
